


The Ale Never Ends Round Here

by orphan_account



Series: Courage [1]
Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drabble-ish format, F/M, Gen, LionTrust, M/M, Pre-Slash, Second POV, Third POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has ended. Still, you wake up, drink your water, and then hold Azeroth through sheer force of will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ale Never Ends Round Here

**Author's Note:**

> Second person pov is still Lothar's pov. Just in case it gets confusing.  
> Also used a mix of film and game lore.
> 
> (Am I late to the LionTrust sin party? Although there's not much (zero) sin in this story tbh.)

Lothar’s mother died when he was still a child.

It was a merciful death; her sickness hadn’t been a cruel one. It seemed as if she merely faded away each day, her stride becoming a shuffle, her sharp eyes going dull, until the day that she could no longer leave the confines of her own bed.

They’d been fortunate, the healer had said. Her skin could have rotten, or perhaps she could have coughed out blood and phlegm, or she could have become delirious. They were lucky. She would not go in pain.

Lothar doesn’t really remember much of what the healer said. What he remembered was his father’s back – his strong backed, proud, and indomitable father – go down, down, down, till it seemed as if he was fading away along with his mother. Remembers the cold, sinking feeling in his insides that made him think that the world was ending.

A month later, Lothar’s mother (his, _their world_ ) dies. Remembers the burial, the white washed well-wishers, and the sight of his father crying after they were alone. He’d thought, “ _This is it, this is the end,”_ because dad had told him that warriors didn’t cry and dad’s words were a law unto itself. Remembers holding Taria’s hands so hard that it bruised.

The day after the world ended, his father sat on the table with puffy eyes and ate breakfast.

* * *

 

_You are reckless. You are young and on top of the world and have nothing to lose. You get yourself into all sorts of things along with Medivh and Llane. Medivh has the same kind of recklessness as you and, between the two of you, a longsuffering Llane gets dragged along._

_Your father looks at you with creased eyebrows every time you are home, but you are deaf. Deaf to everything except the roar in your blood and the restlessness of your youth. All three of you are young and on top of the world and have nothing to lose._

_Then Medivh’s gone and so is the illusion. “_ A coma” _, they say._ “Not sure when, **if** , he’s going to wake up.”

_You wake up from the dream of youth. You are but meat and flesh once more._

* * *

 

Lothar had met her in one of the more dubious taverns: chairs looking as if they were going to collapse if someone sat on them, greasy floors, poor lighting, and a light smell of urine and vomit in the air.

He’d been confused. Confused and vaguely worried that a lady would be at such a place. He’d gotten up and went over to her table to inform her of the danger of an establishment in a place such as this. His resolve only strengthening once he was near enough that he could see her face under the dim lighting.

She was beautiful; with her small, soft boned face and her light brown hair. The delicate eyelashes, her small stature, her onyx eyes, and her modest attire all made her painfully _alien_ to the place.

She was also blaring out, “easy prey,” to anyone that could see her.

Twenty minutes later, with the money in his pockets all gone and his mind befuddled, Anduin Lothar decided that he was in love.

* * *

 

_The day after your wife died, you sat on the breakfast table and tried not to remember how your wife’s cooking tasted like as you ate field rations. Tried not to remember the way her face lit up when she discovered that she was going to become a mother. Tried not to remember the smell of home cooked food._

_Your father had done it. So can you._

_(You spend the next ten years trying not to look at your son’s eyes._

_It’s exactly the same shade of onyx as your wife’s.)_

* * *

 

Lothar fights. It’s the one thing that’s easy. An entire lineage of blood and steel has forged him for this. For peace, for riches, for Stormwind; the King points him at their enemy and he rips his way through them all.

They call him the Lion of Stormwind now. Call him daring instead of reckless; call him Stormwind’s Defender and The Bringer of Peace. It all tastes like ashes on his tongue.

Sometimes, Prince Llane looks at him with that face of his, the one from their childhood that he used every time Medivh and Lothar did something that he didn’t entirely agree with. It rankles on him. Sets his nerves alight and makes him want to scream that they’re not children anymore. That there is no Medivh-Lothar-Llane anymore. It’s Crown Prince, The Guardian, and The Lion of Stormwind now.

Lothar wants the exhilaration of tragedy, wants it so hard that his throat itches; his hands twitching with the need to grasp his own neck as if he could physically stop it. He wants the end of the world to be heralded by something loud and big. Not this quiet fracturing that seems to be a running trend in his life.

Ale, he discovers, is just the thing that pushes the urge back down.

* * *

 

_Your forever is dead. Gone. Your forever’s eyes will not shine with mirth anymore and you will no longer be able to tell her that her looks don’t match her personality. There will be no more ambush of cold toes onto your back during the middle of the night._

_You aren’t supposed to be in a tavern. You are supposed to be in your quarters, resting until the King has need of you again. But the only thing you can think of in the dark is the feel of her body against yours; of the warmth of another being. Now there is only the warmth of ale inside your gut._

_You drink until you pass out and dream of the time **before**. Dream of sunshine and laughter and her voice, high and giddy, “We’re going to become a family, Anduin, a family!” _

_You wake up with her name on your tongue. You catch it before it comes out; shelter her name within the safe confines of your mouth. There’s a stinging wetness on your eyes and your throat is spasming from the effort of holding down your sobs. It shouldn’t be normal. The world shouldn’t be so **damn** normal after the death of your forever.  _

_Outside, through the windows, you can see a messenger waiting, his eyes pinched and his brows drawn._

_You drink a cup of water for your headache and grab a piece of bread for your hangover before you proceed to bring victory for Stormwind through sheer force of will._

* * *

 

The only reason he let Callan go into the army was because it was a time of peace.

Lothar doesn’t think he could have stopped his son even if he tried anyways. He’d been called distant at best and neglectful at worst when it came to his son. Taria herself had more to do with boy’s life, unbeknownst to his son. Always on the lookout, that sister of his. Especially now that she was the queen.

Now the days are stretching, going on and on and on. There is nothing to do. Every now and then he goes around the kingdom, visiting Stormwind’s allies and using his title in order to maintain the peace. It’s easier to keep them appeased when the Lion of Stormwind keeps popping up, makes them keep in mind the power that the kingdom can bare.

Most of the time, however, is spent whittling down the days with alcohol. Not enough to become totally inebriated. Lothar no longer needs the muffle of ale to drown out his screams; the death of his wife, while still sore, is no longer the festering, bleeding wound that it once was. There is only the vague sensation of emptiness now, of an ennui without end.

Looking at the dregs of ale in his mug, he decides that, if this is peace, then it isn’t the one for him.

(His peace had been fond smirks on deceivingly innocent lips and high pitched giggles with the aroma of eggs and baked bread wafting in from the kitchen.)

* * *

 

_Watching the green mist rise from the corpse and the fear in the mage-boy’s eyes, you feel a swooping sensation in your gut._

_Still, you pretend that you are deaf. Deaf to anything but your own bravado and self-assurance._

_Deaf to the war and the sound of possibly losing everything you have left._

* * *

 

The mage-boy is a breath of fresh air.

Lothar is vaguely aware that, despite the mage’s appearance, the boy-man is dangerous. He is – was – friend to the Guardian himself, he needed no lesson about the dangers of magic.

He’d still been surprised when he felt the tremors of a blast near the mage, the air vibrating from the force of the magic. Then a blue glow from the subsequent shield.

Glancing at the mage, Lothar could see how the hand holding up the shield was shaking, the rigidity of how he held himself, the sweat on his brows.

But then there’s no more time because his son, _their_ son, was going to lose his head if he didn’t act.

* * *

 

_Even from a distance, you could feel the spell, sucking in the air and funneling it into a concentrated gust that immobilized the captured orc, the hairs on your arm standing up from the vortex of magic._

_Even after you secure the orc, the mage’s hands are still shaking. He doesn’t belong here, you think to yourself, a man-boy caught in the clutches of war, still young, still youthful._

_Nobody belongs to war and there is respect there, in the decision to stay and help. Khadgar could’ve run. Could’ve ignored the fel and simply waited it out. He was afraid but he still stayed of his own volition. Few men could claim such a feat._

_You’re still teasing him about his stolen horse, though, respect or no respect. He makes it so easy; it would be a shame not to do it._

* * *

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Llane’s direction and Medivh’s face is pale.

An entire world, the orc – Garona – had said. An entire world filled with numerous orcs; orcs that could take on three men by themselves.

Lothar wonders if this is what drowning feels like, the walls closing in on you, the silence choking out the air. None of them are moving and there’s a glass like feeling in the air as if the slightest breath could shatter Azeroth itself.

It’s Taria that moves first, speaking to Garona with that voice of hers, the one that sounded like Elven steel, all smooth and cutting edges. Immovable, that sister of his, and Lothar feels a sharp surge of pride and grief at the sight of her. He hadn’t been there to see his little sister grow from the shy girl that clutched her teddy bear every night into the queen that she is now.

Lothar wishes that he could’ve seen it.

He wishes for a lot of things that day.

* * *

 

_For a moment it is silent; the only sound is the howl of the wind against the cliff and the crackle of the bone fire._

_“He wishes to lay with me,” says Garona, and the moment is so absurd that you snort._

_Khadgar splutters, his eyes widening even as he turns into an interesting shade of red-pink._

_“You would be hurt.” She says it with such a straight face to Khadgar that you let out a huff of laughter despite her tone. She says it as if she was trying to name something unnamable, a quiet kind of sadness and resignation coloring it._

_(You’re deaf, though. Deaf to anything but your own bravado and your cock-sure grin.)_

_“Why do you laugh?” There’s an odd rise to her voice and her forehead is scrunched up in thought._

_You say, “You don’t look like much yourself.” It feels as if it needed to be said; the state of her stature, her lithe figure, all of it was contrary to the burliness of all the orcs that they have encountered so far._

_“Broken bones heal stronger. Mine are very strong.” She throws the words like a child lobbing stones on a pond. As if it didn’t affect her at all. Tosses the words half-breed and_ my mother died _with only a flicker in her eyes and a hand grasping for the trinket on her neck._

_There’s a beat of silence before Khadgar speaks. There’s a comfort here, in the knowing that they were not alone. That the hairline fractures were not endemic to only their own worlds._

_“… doubly less of an honor when the child runs away.” He’s looking at the fire as if it holds the secrets of magic, and this close, with the fire illuminating his face, Khadgar doesn’t seem that young or soft either. More man-boy than boy-man. The mage has his own kind of courage and steel and you want to tell him of the bravery in selfishness._

_You take a bite from the chicken and then say, “Well, that was teary.”_

_(You are the Lion of Stormwind. You have defeated armies that were twice the size of yours even as you felt yourself splitting apart at the seams. You have no skeletons that you can share.)_

* * *

 

_“Anduin, **Anduin**!” _

_“What now, Cally?”_

_“We’re going to become a family, Anduin, a family!”_

* * *

 

For a moment, Lothar has his heart in his throat.

Then it’s gone.

Gone like Callan.

These days it seems as if he is just watching everything that matters slip through his numb fingers. Ice spreads from his chest, making everything numb. He is a glacier now. A glacier simply waiting to crash and melt.

He hadn’t even told Callan that he loved him.

* * *

 

_You let yourself have a beat of fear and uncertainty before you gently grasp Khadgar’s chin. Somehow, you know that this is it. That Khadgar – bright and brave Khadgar – being taken by the fel would the last straw._

_Your heart is in your throat again, despite the odds._

_It remains there this time._

_(For the first time in your life, it feels like you’ve won something.)_

* * *

 

Lothar fights. Swoops down on the orc army as if he were a slighted god.

Lothar is the Lion of Stormwind and he always wins all the battles that don’t matter. There’s no time right now. No time for him to think of how Garona’s face crumbled when she saw him. No time for him to think of how Garona’s dagger is in Llane’s neck.

There is only the beat of his heart and the singing of his sword. The world coalescing into a single moment as he faces Blackhand.

Lothar wins his life. He wins all the battles that don’t matter. The orcs part from him, giving way as he walks toward his gryphon. He’s too tired to think right now. Too tired to think of why they’re letting him go. Too tired to think of Garona’s sharp whispers towards Gul’dan in her orcish language.

He just wants to rest.

* * *

 

_There’s nothing left now._

_You are now Reagent King of Stormwind and you are in a tavern. The barkeeper plops down a mug of ale._

_You didn’t even need to ask for it._

_You cut your hand on a sharp, beaten edge of the cup. It’s nothing, just the slightest of cuts, but the blood dribbling down your palm is entrancing. The world compressing and the dim lighting of the bar suddenly becoming much too bright. You time your breaths to the soft plops of blood on the greasy, wooden floor and try to- to think of something not touched by loss._

_There’s nothing now. No estranged, childhood friends; no foolish, brave son in the army; no awkward orc; no home cooked meals – the only thing that’s left is the ale._

_It’s almost nostalgic when you wake up after passing out. The dreams, the laughter, Medivh’s boyish face still bright and unrepentant, Llane’s disapproving glances, the smell of bread and coffee, teaching Callan how to hold a sword._

_There’s something to be said when the sensation of your world fracturing has become nostalgic._

_You spend a few seconds marveling on the amount of dust on the counter before you notice that there’s a blue cloak, soft and well worn, on you._

_It’s Khadgar’s cloak._

_You blink. On the counter, there’s a plate of bread and a glass of milk, tucked beneath it, a note:_ for your hangover. I’m sure it’s going to be a big one.

_You glance around and spot him dozing off in of the chairs. There’s a patch of sunlight just above Khadgar’s head, and the dust motes dancing in the air make it look as if he had a halo of light._

_The world has ended, once again, and you drink your milk and eat your bread before you wake the mage up._

_Tomorrow there will be a Kingdom that you would have to hold together through sheer force of will along with the looming threat of an orc world and the immediate threat of the orc war-band._

_Still, looking at Khadgar blearily blinking the sleep out of his eyes, with his bed hair and a patch of drool on the shoulder of his tunic, you amend yesterday night’s thoughts._

_There’s still something left._

_Maybe you can make a new world out of this._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome and appreciated, and if you see a typo please do tell. I may have missed something.


End file.
